North to Alaska
by Save the Rave
Summary: A job has brought the brothers farther up north than what either of them are used to: Alaska. But something in the air, whatever's affecting the towns, is going to make this job a bit more difficult than usual, according to Castiel. Oneshot. A bit of Destiel on the side.


Alaska is unlike any other place the Winchesters have seen before, which is saying quite a bit, given the fact that they'd been to every possible American state - save for Hawaii, but that's in the works - ten times over. They knew every interstate, intersection, and the majority of the back roads each town, city, or spit of land had to offer. They had driven almost all of them, knew vaguely of the ones they hadn't, and it took more than bad luck for them to get actually lost. Alaska, however, is different. Alaska's a challenge, Alaska roads are a child's jigsaw puzzle pieced together and napalmed to Hell and back, then assembled by a drunkard on crack-cocaine.

(_"I like this place," Dean said within the first few hours. He grinned over at his brother. "It's pretty."_

_"Yeah," replied Sam. "Okay. Pretty."_

_Dean shot Sam a bland look before popping in an AC/DC cassette tape, cranking it to the point that the back dash was vibrating and the windows in the Impala were rattling_.)

At first, as they're driving up the coast from where the small cargo plane they flew up landed, a possession of a hunter who owed the brothers a favour, nothing seems out of place. The trees are the same, the sky just as dark and crisp as what they'd see over the Midwest on a clear midnight in January, and the road never changes because it always takes them to the same destination: a job that would probably see gory results. This doesn't bother them, because if it did, they probably would have given up hunting a long time ago, once Cas dragged Dean back from Hell by the scruff of the neck (well, upper arm, but it was the same concept). Once all of that was done, they would have just quit.

Blood doesn't bother the boys. Normalcy and stagnation, however, does.

The longer they drive, however, the more they realize just how far from home they are, even though they're still in America. The days grow shorter, to the point that the sun lasts for no longer than three, sometimes four, hours a day. Daylight is scarce; Sam takes over driving for a while because Dean can barely keep his eyes open half the time. It was strange, given the elder Winchester's thing for night-time driving. The forests grow thicker, darker, the world around them colder and in more ways than one. They're going as far north as the road will take them, because that's where the job lies: an old friend of their father's had called them a week back just as they were cleaning up a mess in Missouri, a vampire's nest, asking them if they could haul ass up shit creek as fast as they could. Something had been plaguing one of the small towns in Northern Alaska, as far from civilization as humanly possible. Even the authorities had given up the concept of it being a few rabid bears because rabid bears don't kidnap people out of their homes then return the mangled corpses a few days later.

They're three hours outside of the town, some little place with a name they can't pronounce or spell without consulting the map about ten times of about two hundred people, when Castiel shows up in the backseat, where Dean's sleeping. He watches him for a long moment, fingers trembling as he touches the man's elbow, leaving his fingers there for a moment, and then he shifts in his spot.

"Hello, Sam," he says, looking around and then down once more at the hunter stretched across the leather of the backseat. Castiel tilts his head and studies the man, looking slightly weirded out by the way he's strewn across the backseat. "Is … Dean all right?"

"Uh, hey, Cas. I guess he's okay, I mean, he's been kind of out of it for the past day or so, but maybe it's just jetlag or something, I dunno. I don't think I've seen him like this before" Reaching over the console, Sam pats the empty passenger seat beside him. "C'mon up, man. Have a seat and let's leave Sleeping Beauty to himself."

Cas is beside him in an instant, barely giving Sam enough time to move his hand out of the way. "So, what's the story?"

"Mornin' glory," mumbles a sleepy voice from the backseat. "That's the story. Damn good one."

Looking back at Dean, Cas furrows his brow and then looks to Sam. "I don't get it…"

"It's okay. Just a reference to an album title," sighs Sam, shooting Dean a look. Dean just shrugs it off and then flops back, straightening up a little, head on the window and staring out at the trees flying past, expression vacant, as though he were half there. Sam watches him a little longer, wondering briefly what's causing the drugged look on his brother's face.

"It's the atmosphere," says Castiel, as though reading Sam's thoughts. Perhaps he could. "You're hunting some demons, correct? Once I heard where you two were headed, I checked on up ahead, and the place is like Hell on Earth, truly. Everyone in the town is the same way as Dean, as in the surrounding towns."

"Think it could have something to do with Pestilence?" asks Sam. "Or demons that are doing his bidding or something?"

Castiel shrugs. "It's possible. Either way, you're immune to it because of … your blood, as am I, given that I'm generally immune to most things."

"So Dean's going to be completely useless to me on this hunt, is that what you're saying?"

Nodding slowly, Cas hummed. There was no objection from the waste case in the backseat. Sam glanced in the rear view mirror: he was asleep again. "Essentially, yes. I would suggest you lock him up somewhere safe, let him sleep this off, and you and I could get the job done. You have your knife-" Castiel says this pointedly, shadowed eyes sharp and cold and Sam slumps down a little behind the wheel, feeling his belly churn and a coldness take root in his scalp and all over his body, "and I have my powers. Together we could make quite a formidable team, Sam."

"But how are we going to find a place safe enough to stow Dean away, so that the demons and the angels definitely won't find him?" Sam makes a right onto a dirt road labelled on the map. It's another two hours, closer to two and a half, before they'll get to the town. Sam flicks on the high beams and slows the Impala, tuning the music off altogether. Wrongness oozes from the world around him, but that might be a by-product of his knowing what was causing the changes in the world around him.

"Park the car for now, and I'll scout out the area," offers Castiel. "I'll let you know if there are any abandoned cabins in the area. If there are, I'll take you to it, we'll angel-and-demon-proof the place, then we can get on with the hunt."

Before Sam has a chance to object or agree, Castiel is gone in an instant, his disappearance preceded by the soft fluttering of wings. Sam kills the lights but leaves the car running, just in case.

And then Castiel is back within a matter of moments. He looks worried, sits in silence for a long moment until Sam prompts him into speaking. "This place is far from safe," he murmurs. "Maybe it would be wise to turn back. There aren't even any safe places to hide Dean; the demons would notice. We can't risk Dean being taken by them, or even by the angels or archangels should they get wind of our presence here. We can't Sam, I won't let it happen."

"Turn back and leave this place to the dogs?" demands Sam. He smoothes out the small smile at the sharpness in the angel's voice. He was adamant about protecting Dean. It was heart-warming, and it made him wonder all the more if there was more between the two than what either of them would admit to. "Nuh-uh, I don't think so, Cas. You can bail all you want, but I'm not walking out and letting people get killed when it can be stopped. It's not happening. Not now, not ever."

Castiel watches Sam for some time and Sam puts the Impala back in drive, jaw set and glaring at the road before him.

"He's my brother, Cas," says Sam before gunning it. To hell with caution, they needed to get there, and fast. "He's my brother and I won't let anything happen to him, or to you, for that matter. Not while I'm around."

Castiel nods and sinks back into the seat, hands folded tensely in his lap. He licks his lips, realizing there's no sense in starting an argument he cannot win, even if he fought until he was blue in the face with protest.

"Very well," he says. He feels like a defeatist when he does say it.

Dean thrusts himself forward, between the two, and grins sloppily at either of them, reaching forward turning the music that was previously on back on bust. "Party time, ladies," he cackles before falling back. "Someone pop me some corn, bitches, 'cause wherever the hell you stick me, I want front row seats to the Celts game, got it?"


End file.
